Down where the dead men go
Outside of the physical, time and distance distort. They stretch and collapse and the grand vastness of all that exists is clear, as is the smallness, chaos and fragility of it all. That's enough for existential thinking, though. Perception may alter, but it's no more the answer to the universe than a handful of mushrooms or a few tabs of LSD will provide. It's the hubris of the human mind to think that just because it's perceiving differently that it's perceiving more accurately. That's a load of bollocks. John watches the world and what's beyond it's veiled edges flow by and knows it's bollocks. He's been here before. The light at the end of the tunnel is an oncoming train.
Hell is an engulfing sort of place. Once you're in it, you're part of it. It overloads the senses. Warm and wet and full of unsavory smells. Blood and sex, sweat and shit, hot breath and rot. Like the massive insides of some desperate dying animal trying to hunt, feed and reproduce as much as it can in its last fleeting hours. And this spastic dance of primal need and anger goes on constantly. Every moment. For eternity.
John walks the roads of hell like a long time resident. Like a native. He doesn't know what all lies in wait for him, but he's aware of a few. He doesn't even know for certain where he's going, but he left himself a trail of bread crumbs. The trouble with breadcrumbs, though, is that they draw crows. The signal he left has faded and it's hard to feel out. He worries what else may have noticed it and -- worse yet-- what may have been able to sense his hand at work in this.
Hell is an engulfing sort of place. Once you're in it, you're part of it. It overloads the senses. Warm and wet and full of unsavory smells. Blood and sex, sweat and shit, hot breath and rot. Like the massive insides of some desperate dying animal trying to hunt, feed and reproduce as much as it can in its last fleeting hours. And this spastic dance of primal need and anger goes on constantly. Every moment. For eternity.
John walks the roads of hell like a long time resident. Like a native. He doesn't know what all lies in wait for him, but he's aware of a few. He doesn't even know for certain where he's going, but he left himself a trail of bread crumbs. The trouble with breadcrumbs, though, is that they draw crows. The signal he left has faded and it's hard to feel out. He worries what else may have noticed it and -- worse yet-- what may have been able to sense his hand at work in this.